I grew up in a family without tattoos. Without piercings. Without body modifications. Sure, my mother, grandmother, and many of my female cousins had pierced ears, but none of the men. I didn’t have an uncle with a Sailor Jerry-style tat on his chest. I didn’t have an aunt with a nose ring, or lower lip stud. And my parents and grandparents … well, their skin was pristine. Pockmarked and freckled, blemished and stretched, but otherwise intact. Otherwise “perfect.”
So where my love for body modification came from I am not so sure; all I do know is that I was asking for a belly-button piercing by time I was 12, I wanted to dye my hair “crazy colors” shortly after I turned 13, and a tattoo? Well, I started doodling on my skin with gel pens during sophomore science class, and I never stopped. I never looked back.